Law and Order
by Afalstein
Summary: The Patrician is dead, killed in his own garden by his own bodyguard, the plague that even he couldn't defeat ravaging the streets of Ankh-Morpork. It's left to Sam Vimes, Commander of the Watch, to juggle Lord Downey-the new Patrician-and a string of mysterious disappearances by high-ranking citizens. Whatever this masked man thinks he's up to, Vimes is still a copper.
1. The Patrician is Dead

**The Death of the Patrician**

Watch Commander Samuel Vimes, Duke of Ankh, slumped over his desk in bitter anger. "Report." He said.

Watch Captain Angua straightened up, her hair unusually haggard and her eyes bleary. "We've gotten reports of at least three more outbreaks in the West End." She reported. "We've taken all the quarantine measures we can, but there's no telling how far it's gone already."

"I know that, damnit." Vimes snapped. He was being unfair, he knew, but he couldn't help it. "Tell me what you found in the sewers."

"Rats." Angua shrugged with exasperation. "What did you expect me to find? The place is crawling with rats. Some of the dwarves got out, but most of them are just plague-infested skeletons."

"Ith woulth beth pothible to devithe a compound to rethuce everythingth in the thewers to ash." Forensic specialist Igor suggested helpfully.

"That whole block is like tinder." Vimes growled in return. "What else?"

"Still no word from the guards posted around the Unseen University grounds," answered Captain Carrot. The usually-bright watch captain was actually looking slightly weary. Vimes even thought there was the suspicion of whiskers appearing on his chin. "The tower hasn't re-appeared, and the wizards haven't returned. But I'm certain they'll return once they've drafted a proper cure to the plague, sir!' He added.

"Maybe." Vimes growled. "Or maybe they'll just stay in their pocket dimension until this infernal plague's ripped through us all and there's nothing left to infect them." Vimes had never liked wizards, and the few profitable run-ins that HAD occurred had all been wiped away by the University's decision to vanish from Ankh-Morpork until a cure had been developed.

"Lord Downey is suggesting setting aside the Shades as a holding place for any infected people." Angua intoned, her voice tired. "It would limit the spread of the disease..."

"Over my dead body."

Angua bowed her head, a hint of a smile on her lips. "Yes sir."

"There is a bit of good news, sir." Captain Carrot spoke up. "Watchman Haddock just sent a note—apparently Lord Corvo Attano has just returned from Klatch."

"Wonderful." Vimes sunk even lower in his chair.

"Yes sir." Carrot nodded, invincible from sarcasm. "He's come back early, which means he probably found a cure to the disease in one of the other countries."

Vimes sighed. "Captain, even supposing the other countries did have a cure, there is no reason why they'd waste it on an economic rival they despise. Corvo being back just makes things worse."

Angua arched an eyebrow. "Sir?"

"Don't ask." Vimes turned in his chair and glared off at the Patrician's palace. "I don't trust him. Don't ask me why, I just don't. There's more to him than a simple bodyguard." A snort exploded loose from him. "As if Vetinari, of all people, would NEED a bodyguard!"

"Sir, there's always something more to ANYTHING Vetinari's involved in." Angua's mouth twisted in a rare smile.

"Perhaps Lord Corvo is bodyguard to Vetinari's daughter." Carrot suggested.

"Gah."

"Mr. Vimes?" Carrot eyed the commander worriedly. "It can't be healthy to smash your head into the desk like that."

Vimes ignored the suggestion and slumped back in his chair. "Everytime I hear the word 'Vetinari' and 'daughter' in the same sentence, I... Gah."

"It can't really be good for the desk, either." Angua pointed out.

"YOU try going to the Patrician's palace and talking to him about the rat plague while his half-vampire baby girl is playing around the office." Vimes insisted. "The man's inhuman, he can't have a DAUGHTER."

"Evidence suggests otherwise." Angua murmured.

"Miss Emily is all Lord Vetinari has to remember her mother by." Carrot put in quietly.

A quiet solemnity fell over the office, broken only by the sound of Vimes slamming his head into the desk.

Finally Angua sighed. "Well," she said, with a valiant attempt at a smile, "At least we know-"

"Don't!" Vimes hand shot up, his head remained resting on the desk.

Angua stopped and blinked. "Sorry? I just was going to observe that at least..."

"Don't." Vimes head came up glaring. "Whatever you do, don't you dare say anything remotely resembling what you were thinking of saying."

"I just thought that the one bright spot in all this is..."

"Don't!"

"Oh, come now sir." Carrot smiled. "Let her say it. It's not like things can get any worse."

Someone rapped on the door.

Vimes groaned. "Hold that thought." He hissed. "Just hold that thought a little longer, would you? Come in." He said, loud enough for the person at the door to hear.

The door opened and Cheery Littlebottom stuck her head in the door. "Sorry sir, I know you said not to interrupt you unless it was important, but... well, this is."

Vimes forced himself to look at Cheery. "Very well. What is it?"

"It's the Patrician, sir." Cheery looked very pale. "He's... he's dead."

* * *

"Lord Vetinari is dead."

"I can see that, thanks." Vimes growled, glaring at the crime scene. Hells bells, when this got out the city was going to go crazy. More than it was already, anyway. "What I don't see is why you had to go and move everything here."

Lord Downey looked positively outraged. "The girl was missing! We had to assume he'd been stashed somewhere nearby, Corvo couldn't have taken her far. I apologize if we disturbed the self-evident scene of destruction while looking for a kidnapped girl, but at the moment we were more interested in saving a life than satisfying your suspicions."

Like hell they were. Downey was an assassin, for Io's sake, the HEAD of assassins. You didn't get that position by being interested in saving lives. Vimes didn't trust the man further than he could throw him. Scratch that, Vimes didn't trust the man at ALL.

Dimly, Vimes was aware that his anger was keeping his sense of unbelief in check. This could not be happening. It wasn't possible. Vetinari, of all people, assassinated? It'd been tried before, but never succeeded. Vetinari had been an assassin himself, he should have seen them coming. But somehow he'd been struck down, in broad daylight, in his own gardens, by his own personal bodyguard? It screamed against every instinct in Vimes' body.

So did every part of Lord Downey's story. Corvo, trusted bodyguard to the Patrician killed him, spirited away the daughter and somehow came back to the garden just in time for the guards to catch him with Vetinari's blood on his hands? None of it made any sense.

And yet the obvious alternative made no sense either. Assassin or no, DOWNEY couldn't have killed Vetinari. Vimes had head-butted the Assassin Guildmaster before, the man's killing days were long behind him. And no assassin under Downey could have done it either, not with Corvo standing there.

Corvo was, in fact, about the only person Vimes could realistically see killing the Patrician in a straight-up fight.

Vimes shook his head. "Sergeant Littlebottom and her men will have to go over this scene with a fine-tooth-comb." He informed Downey. "Captain Detritus will arrange a cordon around the palace to contain word of this as long as possible. And I want to talk with Corvo."

Lord Downey didn't even blink. "I'm afraid that's quite impossible."

"He still has a mouth, doesn't he?" Vimes sneered. "And ears?"

"Both are functioning well. But at the moment he is unconscious."

"Then get him down to the Watchhouse, and I'll grill him thoroughly once he wakes up." Vimes answered.

"Also not possible. Your cells at the Watchhouse are not secure enough." Lord Downey shook his head. "We'll keep him in the palace prisons here."

"Really." Vimes had been in the palace dungeons before, and did not have nearly as much confidence in their security as Downey seemed to have.

"Yes, really." Lord Downey unfurled a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. "And I'm afraid there's not much you can do about it, your Grace. Because, you see, by order of the High Council..." He showed the paper to Vimes. "...I am the new Patrician."

_Damnit._ thought Vimes, staring at the paper in helpless anger. _ I'm going to kill Carrot._


	2. Office of the Overseer

**Office of the Overseer**

"I don't know how things got so unpleasant," said High Overseer Campbell as they walked into the meeting room. "A whore dies, and now all this."

_You wouldn't understand it, would you._ Vimes thought. _ A stuffed shirt like you, on his high ivory tower, probably doesn't think of whores much beyond the waist or chest. Doesn't think that even whores have families and loved ones who notice when they're gone. That's why you had one killed, because you thought no one would notice. But I've got you now, you bastard, and you're going to swing, privilege of the clergy or not._

No one had ever accused Vimes of being religious. He occasionally dropped into the temple of Io, but High Priest Ridcully had always struck him as disgustingly fat for a religious man. Campbell, however, got under his skin on a whole new level. All of the Overseers, for that matter, got under his skin. He didn't understand how they'd managed to gain so much influence in Ankh-Morpork in so short a time.

Then again, a lot had happened in Ankh-Morpork in a short time. Downey had taken over, the Shades had become a quarantine district, and the plague had somehow gotten even worse. About the only bright spot in the whole matter was the news that Corvo-who Vimes had never been permitted to even see, let alone question-had escaped from Downey's oh-so-vaunted palace dungeons. The fact that an escaped prisoner was the BEST news Vimes had had in a while just underscored how terrible things were. Worst of all, Vimes felt as though his beloved Watch was being increasingly regulated into a sort of Brute squad to keep the populace down.

Well, not this time. This was an out-and-out case of murder, and for once Vimes was going to see justice done to a real scumbag, not some poor hapless fool with a cold.

"Will you join me for a cup of Tyvian Red?" Campbell asked.

Sweat broke out on Vimes' forehead. "I don't drink." He growled.

"Ah, of course." Campbell smiled a smug smile. "Well, in that case, may I offer you a light soda?"

Something nagged at Vimes about this statement. It seemed odd somehow. Shaking it off, he nodded. "If you must."

"Excellent." Campbell smiled, turning to the table. Sudden irritation flashed across his face. "What the...!"

Vimes glanced over. The two crystal glasses on the tray had been knocked over, spilling their respective contents all over the tray, table and floor.

"I must apologize, your Grace. This is not the hospitality I planned for you." Campbell's face did not look exactly apologetic, in fact it looked rather apoplectic.

Understanding flashed on Vimes. _Planned, indeed_. "I imagine not." He answered, smiling sweetly.

Campbell heaved a breath. "Well, time to do this the hard way." He muttered.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Vimes asked innocently.

"Nothing, your Grace. It seems fortune is with you. I will have to open some of my special vintage for you. If you will allow?" Campbell gestured to the door.

"After you." Vimes made a grandiose bow, without taking his eyes off the High Overseer. I'm not turning my back to you, you snake.

Campbell looked slightly frustrated, but obligingly turned to the hallway and headed for the stairs. Vimes followed him, at a distance of approximately five paces. They'd be headed to some secluded corner of the cathedral. Somewhere where the screams couldn't be heard by his men. _Or the other Overseers_. Vimes smiled grimly, fingering the ceremonial truncheon at his hip. Campbell had a sword, of course, and presumably knew how to use it. _Assaulting an officer of the Watch, Attempted Murder... I've got you now, you bastard._

He heard the step behind him just a second too late.

Something seized him by the throat, choking off his surprised cry. It pulled him back—the attacker was surprisingly tall—lifting his kicking feet off the ground. Vimes grappled at the arm, pulling furiously, but the attacker had a grip of iron. Ahead of him Campbell continued on, oblivious to the choking Watchman.

Not Campbell's work then. So who...?

Blackness was crowding in on his vision. Vimes struggled madly for a few seconds and then went limp. The attacker relaxed his grip, slowly lowering him.

The moment his feet touched the ground, Vimes sprang into action, flipping the attacker over his back, sending him crashing into the opposite wall. "You think you're the first to try that, you son-of-a-bitch?" He shouted, breathing hard as he whipped out his truncheon.

The attacker picked himself up off the floor and turned to face Vimes. A dark sword was clutched in one hand, a strangely-crafted crossbow in the other. He was wearing a large dark greatcoat with a hood pulled over the head, vaguely similar to an old Army uniform.

But Vimes' eyes were irresistibly drawn to the attacker's face. He was wearing a dark facemask like a skull, with gleaming lenses of different sizes sunken into the metal faceplate.

The sound of pounding feet came faintly to Vimes' ears. Apparently the assassin heard them too, for his head whipped to the side. Vimes took the opening and charged.

The assassin leapt back, blocking the truncheon with his blade. Something punched Vimes in the side, knocking him backward. He stumbled a little, glancing down at his chest.

A tiny, odd-shaped dart jutted out of a narrow gap in his ceremonial armor.

Vimes looked up at the man. "You son-of-a-bitch." He said. The man's mask was growing blurry. "Y-you... son-of... a—bi..."

Vimes' legs disappeared and he collapsed to the carpet.

* * *

A sharp pain in his hand woke Vimes. He jerked convulsively, and something ran squeaking away.

Vimes lay back down. He was wet, it was dark, and there was a strong smell of refuse. The cobblestones fit nicely against his back—they were fresh, hard-edged, but very even. Barchester Street. He was on Barchester Street, just outside of that new Overseer place...

Overseers. Vimes jolted upright. He'd been meeting with Campbell about Elly Temperance. How had... there'd been a demon—no, it was a man. A man with a mask. He'd shot him with a... Vimes felt at his chest. The dart was gone.

He looked around. He was lying behind a trashcan, hidden from the street. The rain had wet him through, and his back was all stiff from lying on the cobblestones.

Brought back memories.

Heaving to his feet, he stumbled out from behind the trashcan. Campbell. Campbell was in danger, the dirty scum.

"Sir!" Vimes looked up to see a crowd of watchmen running toward him. "Your Grace!" One of the men turned back to bellow, to the street at large: "He's over here!" Vimes realized the street was full of watchmen, milling about, looking in buildings and around corners and under rubble.

"We've been looking for you for hours, sir!" said the lead watchman, running up to him breathless. "Ever since they found Campbell!"

"Campbell?" So he was too late. Vimes felt a curious pang. Campbell was—or had been—a dirty corrupt bastard who Vimes would have loved to see hang, but the fact that he'd been murdered by a ruffian WHILE he'd been meeting with Vimes made Vimes feel as though he'd failed in some way. More than that—Vimes frowned—it felt like he'd been insulted in some way.

"Yes sir, Campbell. They found him in the interrogation room, along with the other guards. Campbell said it was a man in a hood, with a mask like a death's head."

"Wait, said?" Vimes train of thought crashed to a halt and backed up to the last station. "Campbell's alive?"

Another watchman snorted. "If you can call it that. He's been marked with the Heretic's Brand."

Vimes tried to understand this. "The... what?"

"The Heretic's Brand." The first watchman looked unusually solemn. Probably an Abbey follower. "He's been marked as an apostate. Cast out of the Order. No one will be permitted to feed or house him."

"The guards in the interrogation room threw him out themselves, once they realized what had happened." The second watchman looked more amused than solemn.

"They're not dead either?" Vimes asked in disbelief.

A series of shrugs rippled through the crowd. "Choked out, drugged, or humiliated, but not dead," answered the lead watchman. "Probably wish they were, then they'd be martyrs instead of laughingstocks."

"There's not a corpse on the grounds," echoed another. "And we've been looking a while."

What kind of assassin left no bodies? A very talented one, Vimes decided. Killing people was easy. Knocking them out one-by-one took some serious skill. And he hadn't been knocked out here, his attacker must have carried him out by hand. WITHOUT the guards noticing—Vimes made a note to take them to task for that later.

"Get out of the way!" Vimes recognized the near-snarl instantly. Sergeant Angua shoved her way through the crowd, followed by an anxious-looking Carrot and several Troll watchmen. "Let us through!" She came out at the front, breathing hard and took him in at a glance. She made a small movement forward, like a hug that was halted in its infancy. "You're safe, sir!"

"Of course." Vimes' old crankiness reasserted itself. "Isn't everyone?"

"We thought you might be the target, Mr. Vimes,"said Carrot, coming alongside his wife. "When we couldn't find you anywhere, we thought... well." He swallowed.

"Our... werewolf wasn't much help, I'm afraid." Angua looked rather crushed. "Too much incense to get a whiff of anything. Did you see who...?"

"Bastard stuck me with a dart." Vimes waved the concern away. "Knocked me out for a few hours. Now set up the whole compound as a crime scene, see if he left anything worth finding."

Carrot eyed him worriedly. "The Overseers won't like that, sir."

"A shame." Vimes deadpanned. "If they want the man who branded their blessed High Overseer, they'll shut up and let us do our job."

"Sir, you're bleeding." Angua pointed out.

Vimes looked down. Sure enough, there was a gash on his arm, but it didn't look like a dagger wound. It was more precise, like a puncture wound or...

...a rat bite.

Carrot put a massive hand on his shoulder. "Come along sir. We need to get you out of here."

"Right." Vimes nodded vaguely, looking at his hand.

He had been bitten by a rat.


	3. The Pilfered Pendletons

**The Pilfered Pendletons**

* * *

"I honestly couldn't say if you were infected... we still aren't sure if the disease is transmitted by rat bites," said Leonard of Quirm, wrapping a bandage around the hand. "Certainly, that's not ALL it's transmitted by. Even if you were, though, you should still be fine... you said you'd been taking my potion regularly, correct?"

"Yes," grunted Vimes. He had been known all this already, but once Lord Downey heard of the rat bite he'd insisted Vimes see the royal physician.

"Well then, you should be fine." Leonard beamed, turning away. "Certainly better than that poor Campbell fellow. I hear he's been ousted from the Overseers. Poor man doesn't have a chance, with all the rats running over the city."

Vimes just grunted again, leaning back in the chair and glancing around Leonard's laboratory. After Vetinari had been discovered dead, a palace-wide hunt had been instituted for the Quirmian inventor, who'd always been something of an open secret since that incident with Cohen the Barbarian. They'd found the passageway easily enough, but Downey had wasted countless assassins (because hell if Vimes was going to send his Watchmen down there) trying to navigate the death-filled hallway before Leonard had wandered out to see what all the dying screams were for.

It really wasn't a surprise that Vetinari had already had Leonard working on a cure for the plague. It WAS, however, a surprise for the court officials to go through Leonard's papers and realize just how many cruel and deadly devices Vetinari had refrained from using over the years.

Lord Downey, on the other hand, had apparently none of the former Patrician's restraint.

Which was what brought them to this facility on the Ankh-Morpork bridge, where Leonard had been moved, surrounded by Watchmen, palace guards, and some of the deadliest devices from his own sketchbook. Vimes was inclined to think that it was significantly LESS secure than Leonard's old room, but at least this way they didn't have to kill a whole troop of men just to get his attention.

"How's your work on the cure coming along?" He asked, more out of habit than anything.

"Well enough." Leonard shrugged, puttering amongst the plants in his room. A half-finished painting leaned on the easel opposite. "I've definitively eliminated whale oil as a possible ingredient. Hagfish eggs are definitely promising, and pearl krust linings have yielded some interesting results, though..." His bald head wrinkled in puzzlement. "...I'm having trouble getting enough of those. And water. What I could really use is some clean, fresh, water."

Vimes just snorted. "Good luck with that." The river Ankh was as solid—more solid, in all likelihood—as ever.

"Indeed." Leonard nodded ruefully. "I only wish Piero were here..."

"Sir." An anxious-looking watchman was plucking at Vimes' elbow. "Sir. Urgent message, sir."

"Yes, yes," snapped Vimes irritably, turning around to face the man. "What is it now?"

"It's the Pendletons, sir."

* * *

"Hello Fred." Vimes grunted as he stepped into the Golden Cat gardens. "Didn't know you'd be here."

"Er..." Fred Colon looked faintly uncomfortable at having been caught by his superior officer in the act of staring through a peephole. "Terrible business this, sir. Figured ought to come down, see what I could do to lend a hand."

"Mm." Vimes cast an eye over the gardens and square. "Well, I can see you weren't the only one." In fact, Vimes didn't think there'd been so many Watchmen in one place since the last anniversary of Kooms Valley. "So good to see such public spirit among my men."

"That it is, sir," nodded Fred Colon, sweating slightly.

Vimes looked at him and shook his head. "Go and put your ear to the ground, Fred." He said. "See what they're saying on the street about this business." He started to move past the fat sergeant. "And tell Nobby to get out of that bush."

Leaving the flustered Watchman behind, Vimes stalked over to where Carrot was standing attentively. "So," he began conversationally. "The Pendletons, hm?"

"I can't imagine what two men of such a respected station would be doing at a place like this, sir." Carrot shook his head in bewildered dismay.

"Can't you?" Vimes cocked an eyebrow at his captain. Once again, he pondered whether Carrot was REALLY as oblivious as he appeared. Surely no one's naivete could be THAT invincible.

"No sir." Carrot shook his head, the expression of shock still etched in his face. "But I'm afraid there's no mistake. Their names are in the guest books and everything!"

Vimes really wondered what was the point of a guest book at a place like this. High-class as the Golden Cat might be, legal as the Guild of Seamstresses was, still the fact remained that you didn't want your wife—or friends, or enemies—knowing that you frequented a place like this.

"And it's been rather difficult getting names from everyone, sir." Carrot noted, seemingly in tune with Vimes' thoughts.

"Oh? You don't say." grunted Vimes, casting an eye over the crowd of half-dressed nobility milling around angrily on the lawn. "That one there is Lord Friswig, the two arguing with Captain Detritus are Logan Cheeseworth and Michael Casterbridge, and that..." Vimes squinted. "Hm. That's Lady Ramsbottom."

"Whatever would a LADY be doing here, sir?" Carrot's face turned bright red.

"The same thing as all the other ladies." Mildly amused at Carrot's discomfiture, Vimes slapped the young man on the back. "Now. Head down there and start calling out names. Once they start to think you're onto them, they'll cooperate quickly enough. Where's Madame Prudence?"

"Here, your grace." A glaring, middle-aged woman in a rather outrageous gown pushed her way forward. "And I am NOT happy with the police work that's been done so far."

"Police work rarely makes people happy, ma'am." Vimes grunted. "Oddly enough, it often has very little to do with it. Now: What exactly happened?"

"Are you in earnest, sir? Do you honestly expect me to tell my story again?"

"Yes," nodded Vimes, sticking a cigar in his mouth. "When d'you notice the Pendletons were missing?"

Madame Prudence rolled her eyes, but answered anyway. "Custis Pendleton's guard was a most persistent man. He could not understand why Lord Pendleton's 'entertainment' was taking so long, and at length became impatient enough to enter the room on his own. He found Custis gone and my girl bound, gagged, and blindfolded in the corner." Madame Prudence shrugged. "Naturally we immediately went to check on Morgan Pendleton, only to find the same thing—the man gone, his friend and their entertainer subdued."

Vimes nodded as Carrot walked back up. "What'd the courtesans and Lord Pendleton's friend say?" He asked the captain.

"Neither one of them had much time to see anything." Carrot answered. "Millie—the girl from the steam room, sir—she didn't see anything at all. It was too foggy in there and she said she just saw some shadowy forms before something knocked her down. Louise, from the Gold Room, got a slightly better look, she said they were wearing bowler hats and masks, and carrying some clubs and pistols. They never fired, though. They just knocked Lord Pendleton over, then pointed a gun at her and told her to turn around. They tied her up and left."

"Lord Pendleton's friend?"

"Passed out drunk during the whole thing, sir."

Vimes groaned. Of course he was. "Did either of the Pendletons mention any threats made against them?" He asked Madame Prudence.

The Madame simply rolled her eyes. "Why don't you ask their guards?"

"Because your women are renowned for their ability in getting men to talk." Vimes answered. "Any threats, intrigues, enemies they were watching out for? Why were there so many guards here?"

"It is the day—or I should say the night—of our grand re-opening, your Grace," answered the Madame, smiling superciliously. "We require a great deal of protection for the many rich patrons we expect." Her glance turned cold. "Patrons that will be very upset, should our preparations for the re-opening be delayed."

"I imagine your patrons will be more upset about the fact that two of your richest patrons disappeared under mysterious circumstances." Vimes muttered. "There is one…"

"Excuse ME, Sir Vimes."

Vimes turned to confront a black-robed figure. "Lord Downey." He glared. "How do you plan on making my life more difficult today?"

"On the contrary, your Grace, I am here to make your life easier." Lord Downey offered a thin smile. "I would like to take Madame Prudence off your hands."

Vimes, out of the corner of his eye, could see that Madame Prudence was strangely agitated. "I haven't yet finished questioning her." He grunted in answer. "And while you are the Patrician, the disappearance of the Pendletons is the Watch's concern."

"Pendletons?" There was just the slightest pause in Downey's reaction. "Oh yes. Morgan and Custis. Dear friends of mine, I am sadly worried as to their fates. But it is another matter that I must discuss with the good Madame. Rest assured I shall return her to you and you may question her as thoroughly as you wish."

"Heard that before." Vimes grunted, images of the doomed Corvo flashing through his mind. Unfortunately, he had little real choice, as he well knew, so with a shrug, he signaled Carrot to release the nervous-looking Madame.

"Well, she seems VERY concerned about the loss of her two richest patrons." He grunted, watching the woman leave with the Patrician.

"Really sir?" Carrot frowned at him. "I thought she was strangely aloof, myself."

Vimes rolled his eyes and turned to Sergeant Colon, who was just approaching. "Sir," said the fat sergeant, knuckling his forehead. "There's something mighty peculiar about all this. The word is, it was Slackjaw's Bottlestreet gang what pinched the Pendletons."

"That lot?" Vimes shook his head. Slackjaw was untouchable, a powerful gang lord with a fully up-to-date thieves guild license. The Watch could, presumably, take out his gang, but whether they could do that AND maintain order in a plague-infested Ankh-Morpork was another question entirely. It would almost certainly be easier and less hazardous than to follow whatever demands were given.

"It just... doesn't make sense." Colon was saying.

Vimes frowned at him. "Pardon?"

"Well... see, Mr. Vimes, the problem is, the Pendletons... they been at this place for a while now. And Slackjaw never touched them before. They've got nothing he would want, at least not here. Slackjaw ain't the ransomin' sort. He takes what he can get and so forth, but... well, keepin' people fed and healthy is a challenge enough, right now. Doing so for money isn't as profitable as it was."

"Mmm." Vimes nodded.

"Slackjaw'd rob them if he could, but their estates are outside the city." Colon pointed out. "Kidnapping them for ransom doesn't make any sense. It'd cost too much, and besides, they don't got facilities for imprisonin' folks down at the Distillery."

"Maybe he's branching out some—" Vimes cut off as a carriage pulled up to the front gate. "Oh, hell's bells, what NOW?"

A slim, spare man with an anxious face leapt out of the carriage before it had even stopped. Striding quickly up to Vimes, he attempted a hasty bow. "Lord Trevor Pendleton, your grace. Morgan and Custis were..."

"...your brothers." Vimes finished. He vaguely remembered, now, Sybil telling him that there was a third Pendleton. If the rest of what he remembered was true, it seemed MOST unlikely that Slackjaw'd be getting any ransom from this one. "You got here fast."

"I was attending to business in the Canning District." Pendleton mopped his brow. "One of my men heard a few members of the Watch talking about it. Is it true? Are they... dead?"

Vimes, Carrot, and Colon exchanged glances. "Not so far as we know." Vimes grunted. "We think Slackjaw's men may have grabbed them."

"Grabbed them? Slackjaw?" There was honest surprise in Pendleton's face. "But... why? We never had any trouble with the Bottlestreet gang before."

"An excellent question, milord." Vimes smiled sardonically. "We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

"Certainly, certainly. Anything, if it will only help my brothers."

Colon watched the man disappear with Carrot. "Didn't know there was another Pendleton." He commented.

"He's not exactly well-known. His brothers own most of the estates." _Or did._ Vimes rubbed his chin, remembering everything that Sybil had told him about the Pendleton brothers. "Colon, does Slackjaw take commissions on people?"

"Not really. He's his own man, likes to pick and choose his targets. He's not in the murder-for-hire business," answered Colon, looking at him. "An' if it was to capture the Pendleton's, he'd probably give them a chance to pay off their own commission first."

"Mm." Vimes nodded. Trevor Pendleton had money, but not enough for something like that.

"Finished my sweep of the area." Angua pushed her way forward, tightening the straps on her armor. "But sir, please don't ever make me sniff out a whore-house like this again. I don't WANT to know what half those smells were."

"Noted." Vimes grunted.

Angua sighed. "It looks like they came in the back door—some kind of VIP entrance." She reported. "Smelled very strongly of liquor—the East gin variety."

Colon and Vimes exchanged glances. Definitely Slackjaw.

"They made their way out the same way and went to a carriage, but that's where I lost them." Angua frowned. "But there's something else. When I was climbing around the upper dormitories, I ran across another smell—a girl."

"There's a lot of girls in this place." Colon not-quite leered.

"I mean a ten-year old one." Angua said, sharply. "What's a little kid like that doing in a place like this? And there was a man up there too."

Vimes felt tempted to repeat Colon's comment. "Is that unusual?"

"For the dormitories? Yes. That's where these women live, most of the time, they do their... entertainment..." there was the touch of a sneer on Angua's face, "...in the lower rooms. There'd be no reason for a man to be up there." She rolled her eyes at Vimes' and Colon's expression. "Trust me, if you saw those rooms, they're the last place you'd want to do it in. Besides, any man up there for that reason wouldn't bring this with him." She held up a small crossbow bolt.

Vimes took it from her and studied it. "You found this upstairs?" He asked.

"Buried in the doorframe next to the room where I found the girl's smell." Angua nodded.

"Slackjaw's men don't use no darts." Colon eyed the missile with interest. "They're all about pistols, that lot."

"Nobody uses darts like this." Vimes grunted back. "Or at least, not many." He had a momentary, hazy vision... a man in a death's-head mask. An odd dart jutting out of the plates of his armor. Darkness. "Get it to Cheery and Igor and see what they make of it." He ordered, handing it back to Angua.

"On it, sir." Angua vanished into the crowd.

"Sir." Nobby Nobbs was at his elbow, or more accurately his knee, grinning in a manner that would have been, on someone else, ingratiating. "There's a man, in that crowd there, says he needs to get on home, or at least to send someone home for him. Says he's about to be robbed."

"About to be?" Vimes stared at the man.

"Says a man came in pretending to be a courtesan. Says he tormented him to get the combination to this 'ere man's safe."

"Bad eyesight on his part, eh?" Colon chuckled.

Nobby's horrible grin widened. "The gent did say as he was blindfolded, sir."

Vimes shook his head, wondering why Nobby, of all people, was suddenly concerned about a citizen's well-being. "What's his name?"

"Bunting, the art dealer, sir." Nobby's head cocked knowingly, seemingly guessing at Vimes' thoughts. "'e said 'e was prepared to be MOST generous as to the coppers what lent him a hand, sir."

"Oh sir." Colon blinked, as if suddenly remembering something. "I've heard that name. Slackjaw's been trying to crack open that man's safe for weeks."

"Vimes!" The Lord Regent shoved his way through the knot of watchmen. "This is an emergency! I need your best Watchmen, your strongest irregulars, and your werewolf, wherever he is around here, to track a... person of interest who has vanished. This is of utmost importance, Vimes, a matter of national security...!"

"Mr. Vimes..."

"What?" Purely out of spite, Vimes turned from the Lord Regent's urgent message to the probably-unimportant messenger at his elbow. "What's happened now?"

The messenger, a fresh-faced lad, gulped nervously. "It's the Royal Physician, sir. Leonard of Quirm. He's... he's missing."

* * *

**A/N: **Apologize on this taking so long, but this mission is a bit more complex than the last and took a good deal more writing. Plus the lack of interest in this story has lead to a corresponding lack of interest in writing it. Feel free to drop a review to tell me what you think. I have the next chapter mostly done, but I'm not planning to post it up for another week.


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